


Officially Official

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sleepy Monday-morning case of mistaken identity at the office leads Geoff, Michael, and Trevor down a road fraught with jealousy and sexy peril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Geoff’s headache starts before he leaves the house and it’s absolutely  _pounding_ by the time he arrives at work. He’d been out of coffee at home since Sunday, and traffic has him distracted to the point that he makes it past every viable coffee option before he remembers that he hasn’t had a cup yet.

He needs more than a cup. He needs goddamned 50. Preferably with good company. He’ll catch Michael, he figures, and convince him to go on a coffee run. Maybe a little adoring conversation is all he needs – and barring that, a handful of aspirin and a few minutes with Michael in his lap in a parking lot somewhere might do the trick.

When Geoff finds Michael, he’s stooped over a cup of coffee in the kitchenette, stirring sugar into a paper cup of the mediocre stuff someone had brewed, hoodie up. Geoff’s headache throbs a little less just at the sight of his broad back under the familiar AH hoodie, his trim waist.

There’s no one else around, so Geoff steps behind him quietly before taking him by the hip with one hand and palming his ass with the other – grabbing hard and pressing him into the counter.

“Whaddya say we blow this joint, get some real coffee, and then blow some other stuff,” Geoff says, burying his face in Michael’s neck. “ _Each other,_ in the parking lot maybe.”

Geoff doesn’t wait for an answer before grinding into Michael, sucking a mark into his favorite spot above Michael’s collarbone.

“Oh!” a voice says. “Uh, OK?”

Geoff almost _levitates_ backwards. He shoots backwards so fast he almost trips over his own feet and he lands hard against the opposite counter, taking a hit to the kidneys that wakes him up almost as much as the fact that the person who turns to face him _isn’t Michael._

It’s Trevor.

And he’s smiling.

“Holy shit, Trevor,” Geoff says, gripping the countertop behind him hard. “Holy shit.”

“Good morning?” Trevor says. His eyebrows are hitched and he’s got the most gigantic white grin across his face. “Hell of a way to start a Monday, boss.”

“I thought you were _Michael_ ,” Geoff says, his eyes wide, hardly able to believe how fucking casual Trevor is as he flicks his hood back away from his face and looks at Geoff. The kid sips the cup of coffee he was making before Geoff had started pawing him.

“So what you’re telling me is, not only do I not get to blow you – you’re also not going to buy me a better cup of coffee than this?” Trevor says between sips. He purses his lips and blows cool air over the top of the black coffee, looking at Geoff over the rim of the cup. 

“Trevor – I’m _so_ sorry,” Geoff says, kneading the skin at the back of his neck. “I’m fuckin – I don’t know how – I’m half asleep, I didn’t –”

“No sweat,” Trevor says, shrugging, turning to leave the kitchenette and head back to the office. “Guess I got my hopes up that it was finally my turn.”

_His turn? His fucking **turn?**  _

Trevor paces away, posture as straight and perfect as usual. Geoff works hard to control his breathing. He’s never embarrassed himself (while sober) this badly in his entire miserable life – and on top of that, _what the fuck did Trevor mean by his fucking turn?_

“But hey,” Trevor says, turning to face Geoff before he rounds the corner. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

He lifts the cup of bad coffee in a little salute and then disappears.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, Michael -- I think Geoff is looking for you.”

When Michael looks up, Trevor is leaning over towards him from the other side of the desks, sipping a cup of coffee. Otherwise, the office is still empty.

“Geoff knows where my fuckin’ desk is,” Michael says, feigning grumpiness. “He can come find me if he wants.”

Trevor laughs lightly and pulls down on the collar of his shirt. There’s an angry red mark there against Trevor’s pale skin, right above the collarbone -- and it looks brand new. Michael hitches an eyebrow.

“You might wanna find him before he gives anyone else a hickey looking for you,” Trevor says.

“ _Geoff_ gave you that?” Michael says -- and like it or not, he’s curling his hands hard on the armrests of his chair under the desk.

“Hey, it was an honest mistake,” Trevor says, holding a hand up. “This was absolutely meant for you.”

“How the fuck do you _accidentally_ give somebody a hickey?” Michael says, forcing himself to unclench his fists.

“You should ask Geoff,” Trevor says. “I’m sure he’ll _love_ reliving it. I think he wants to tell you about it over coffee.”

Trevor starts to turn to go back to the B-team office, but he must think better of it, whirling back around to face Michael. His expression is more serious this time.

“Hey -- sorry -- don’t be mad at him,” Trevor says. “I had my hood up and he came up behind me. He seriously thought I was you.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael says. “Because we’re fuckin body doubles.”

“I mean… I try,” Trevor says, slipping back into a smile. “I’m not fuckin’ cut like Michael Jones but…”

Michael forces a half-grin.

“Anyway, why would I be mad?” Michael says, shrugging, pressing himself to be nonchalant.

A frown tugs at Trevor’s mouth.

“Just. You know, you and him… ?” he starts, obviously feeling uncomfortable putting into words whatever it is he must think goes on between Michael and Geoff.

“It’s casual, it’s whatever,” Michael says.

“I figured you two were exclusive,” Trevor says. He’s apparently abandoned whatever he was headed off to do, because he sinks down onto the couch now, sitting back and looking comfortable. Maybe a little too interested in this conversation, Michael thinks.

“Me and Geoff?” Michael says -- and he mentally kicks himself for this obvious statement. Of fucking course Trevor was talking about him and Geoff. He’s acting about as casual as a man falling off a fucking cliff. “Nah. I mean. There’s history there but… Geoff can do what he wants. It’s nothing formal. We’re not exclusive.”

Trevor’s eyes go wide as he blinks, apparently considering this new information.

“That’s really cool,” he says after a minute and another sip of coffee. “You know -- no jealousy, all that.”

“Yep,” Michael says, trying not to grit his teeth. “So where did you say this happened? Maybe I _should_ go find him.”

“He was in the kitchen,” Trevor says, hitching his chin towards the door. “Said he wanted to take you out for a cup of coffee.”

“Thanks, man,” Michael says -- and he pushes quickly out of the office, leaving Trevor on the couch.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't mean to, but as Geoff finds some corner to sit in and curl his body around the styrofoam cup of shitty coffee, he replays the scene in his head.

If he'd have been more awake, he would've noticed that the person he was all over was most definitely **not** Michael. Trevor is slimmer, a little taller, his neck longer. The curve of his ass under Geoff's palm had been different, the hip against Geoff's hand sharper and thinner, his weight a little slighter and easier to press into the counter and he'd even _smelled_ different when Geoff had stooped to --

 _Geoff_ , he thinks. _Stop_.

Trevor is a good sport. Surely he'd played along and pretended to flirt with Geoff because it was a good way to defuse the tension of Geoff's enormous fuckup.

But still, Trevor hadn't exactly freaked out. He had barely reacted as if anything were out of the ordinary. Hell -- his body hadn't even tensed up under Geoff's hands as Geoff had roughly sucked a mark into the pale skin of his --

 _GEOFF_ , he thinks. _STOP_.

“Trevor said you were looking for me?”

Geoff jolts up in his chair, feeling like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t -- and it takes him a minute to remember that Michael -- who has rounded the corner into the kitchenette -- can’t read his mind.

“Michael -- “ he starts.

“Oh good, you’re one for two in identifying me today,” Michael says, a crooked grin slung across his face making him look anything but happy.

“So Trevor told you?”

“More like _showed_ me,” Michael says. “Went a little rough on the kid’s neck, boss.” 

He pulls the chair out, spinning it around and sitting backwards opposite of Geoff at the small table in the corner of the kitchenette. He rests his chin on his tattooed forearms and looks at Geoff, seeming suddenly young.

Well. Younger than usual.

“Listen -- I’m _really_ sorry --”

Michael hitches an eyebrow and shrugs sharp.

“Don’t be,” Michael says. “Trevor said it was an honest mistake.”

“It seriously was.”

“And even if it hadn’t been a mistake, it’s not like it would make sense for me to be mad,” Michael says.

Geoff tries not to widen his eyes at the statement. This is fucking news to him.

“Why… wouldn’t it make sense?” Geoff asks.

“It’s not like you’re my _boyfriend_ or whatever,” Michael says, spitting the word out like it tastes bad. “You can give hickeys to whoever you want.”

“Michael,” Geoff says, “it’s not even -- that’s not -- it was seriously a fucking accident, buddy --”

“OK, ok, I get it, you two convinced me,” Michael says, holding up his hands.

“ _You two?_ ” Geoff repeats. “You say that like me and Trevor are _in on_ something.”

“Wouldn’t be my business if you were,” Michael says, pushing back an arm’s length from the chair and hanging there.

“I feel like we’re having two completely unrelated conversations right now,” Geoff says, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I basically fucking molested him. I’m lucky he’s not in Burnie’s office filing a sexual harassment complaint right now.”

Michael hums and gives Geoff an incredulous look.

“Well, he came into the office with a big ol’ grin a few minutes ago to tell me what happened,” Michael says. “So I think you don’t have much to worry about on the sexual harassment front.”

Geoff’s floored. Sure, he’d expected Trevor to tell Michael what had happened -- but not to _brag_ about it. It didn’t seem like that was in Trevor’s nature. Even if Geoff and Michael aren’t _official,_ it isn’t exactly an office secret that they’re together in some capacity. 

“I’m… surprised that was his reaction,” Geoff admits.

“Yeah, well, maybe with all your remarks about how _cute_ he is, he’s been waiting for you to make a move,” Michael says, standing now, flipping the chair back and tucking it under the table.

“Hey, come on,” Geoff says, standing now too, half-panicked. “At least let me buy you a cup of fucking coffee --”

Michael gives him a look that’s half disbelief and half warning.

“You don’t have to _blow me_ , just coffee,” Geoff says, dropping his voice.

“Oh, a beejer was on the table too?” Michael says, raising his eyebrows and puffing out an ironic laugh. “Christ, maybe you should be apologizing to Trevor instead. Kid probably got his heart crushed when you changed your mind.”

“ _Changed my mind?_ ” Geoff says, voice high and cracking. “That’s -- hey! Michael!”

But Michael has spun on his heel and is walking off, head tucked.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Trevor sets the mostly-empty cup of coffee down on his desk before falling hard into his chair.

Monday had gotten really interesting, really fast.

First there had been Geoff, rushing up on him like something out of a goddamn wet dream. How many times had Trevor imagined a similar scenario? His boss just _on him_ out of the blue. It played out -- at least for a minute there -- more like a rushed and unimaginative masturbation fantasy than a real office faux pas. His real, actual pornographic daydreams weren’t even _that_ dirty and abrupt.

It’s probably really wrong for Trevor to have cataloged the entire thing in his head, setting it aside for another time. But that’s exactly what he’d done: memorized the size of Geoff’s palms, the strength of the fingers pressing hard into his hip, the bulk of the larger man behind him, pressing him into the kitchen counter, _the way Geoff’s voice had sounded_ when he’d accidentally asked Trevor out for coffee and a quickie.

Christ. If he’d had a **thing** for Geoff’s normal voice and Geoff’s recording voice and Geoff’s joke voice, Trevor most definitely now also has a **thing** for Geoff’s half-asleep-but-trying-really-hard-to-be-sexy voice.

That must, Trevor thinks, be exactly what Geoff sounds like when he lays in bed on weekend mornings with Michael. 

Trevor can imagine the man just waking up -- half asleep, eyes mostly closed, maybe a little hungover but still horny and handsy, dragging fingertips across Michael’s belly under the sheets and pressing his face into Michael’s neck, his hard-on into Michael’s hip, trying to tempt him into first-thing-in-the-morning sex with lazy dirty talk in that same graveley, thick voice.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Trevor has work to do and instead he’s running through fantasies that are _at best_ completely creepy and _at worst_ the type of thing that makes it so you can’t look anybody in the eye out of fear that they _just know_ your secrets. He can’t be thinking about his boss. His boss **es** , really, because even as he logs into his work computer, the morning sex fantasy running on overdrive in the background of Trevor’s brain can’t really decide whether it’s more enjoyable to imagine what Geoff and Michael must get up to together or to insert Trevor in Michael’s place and think about that instead. It’s taking real concentration and willpower not to get hard at his goddamned work desk.

**Fuck.**

Trevor isn’t the type of kid who gets obsessed with the idea of fucking his boss. Even less the type to actually act on the impulse. Desire. Secret, horrible, year-long dream. _Whatever_ you want to call it.

Trevor is the type of kid who shows up to college classes early, who never misses a day of work, who packs a lunch, who has a fucking LinkedIn page, and a business casual wardrobe.

He’s not like Michael and Geoff -- can’t be, even though there’s a part of him that wishes he were. He can’t imagine being confident enough to just walk up to someone -- even someone who is sleeping with him during off hours -- and grab their ass, talk dirty to them with no warning. It must be nice to be that confident. It must get the two of them laid a whole hell of a lot more than Trevor does, despite how many nice compliments he gets about being adorable, well spoken, whatever.

He doesn’t want to be adorable and well spoken. He wants to be loud and confident and hilarious. He wants to be the kind of person who gets a blow job in the parking lot just because he asked. The type of person who can share someone and not be insecure about that.

Must be nice.

He peeks into the Achievement Hunter office, and neither man has walked in. Is that where the two of them are right now? Had they snuck off to Geoff’s car to -- what? -- “make up?” He’d heard them joke before, but it’s ten times more distracting to know that the two of them fooling around in the parking lot **right now**  is a real possibility. Trevor can imagine it easily: Michael leaning over the center console, Geoff reclined in his driver’s seat with his eyes closed and mouth hanging open, one tattooed hand bracing himself on the steering wheel and the other twisting in the hair at the back of Michael’s head and --

Trevor wants -- no, **needs** \-- another cup of coffee. But he is absolutely not prepared to run into Michael or Geoff in the kitchenette in case they’re still there. He’d used up all of his smiling confidence on Geoff, and then flubbed his way through an explanation to Michael.

Christ. By the way Michael had left in search of Geoff with a stiff-legged speedwalk and posture like an italic capital “I,” Michael was definitely pissed off. Trevor had really botched that, and he replays the scene in his head as he brings up the first of his editing work for the day.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told Michael -- but he’d wanted to come clean as soon as possible. Rumors got started when someone (especially someone who was your boss) gave you a hickey and then you didn’t clear the air, right?

And yeah it had been a relief to hear that Michael and Geoff weren’t **officially** anything other than great friends and fuck buddies. But Michael had still been mad over some aspect of what happened, and Trevor acting like it was one big joke hadn’t exactly cleared the air.

Trevor cracks his neck. He checks his email. He stands up and walks a few laps around the little office. He sends texts to Jeremy, Matt, and Lindsay to please for the love of God bring him a cup of coffee from somewhere if they’re already stopping.

He tries to do his work. He really does.

But the stupid fantasies loop… and loop… and loop.


	5. Chapter 5

To say that the rest of Monday is strained is an understatement. 

They film for an hour in the morning -- everyone putting on a happy face for AHWU. 

Michael checks the fuck out, staying at his desk, letting Gavin and Jeremy be the sideshow behind Geoff and Jack this week. 

Still, while Geoff is recording, he keeps looking over to Michael, asking him questions that Geoff already knows the answer to. Michael doesn’t completely ignore him, but he also doesn’t hop out of his chair like he normally would. He knows the attention is Geoff’s peace offering -- but he can pout if he wants to. So he does. 

He watches Geoff closer, though, after the man returns to his desk and Jack calls Trevor over to read the community segment for AHWU. 

Geoff is deep in a spreadsheet, his posture a little _too straight_ when Trevor enters the office. He’s ignoring Trevor on purpose -- eyes glued to his computer screen -- and in the intense concentration, he’s giving himself away. His discomfort is almost palpable, Michael realizes.

It almost makes Michael feel a _little_ bad for reading Geoff the riot act in the kitchenette.

Almost.

Geoff’s dealt with his temper before, though. He can handle it. No, it’s not _great form_ to essentially punish Geoff for what was probably a mistake. But the mistake -- honest or a subconscious expression of something or _whatever the fuck_ had happened -- did pick at a sore spot in Michael’s chest. 

Yeah. He’s jealous of Trevor. So fucking what.

Geoff hits on everyone. That’s basically been 2015 Geoff’s _schtick_ right? He’d been pushing the gay jokes pretty hard all year -- but normally they’re absurd. 

The jokes about Trevor never really did ring to Michael like jokes, though. Every time someone brought Trevor up in conversation, Geoff was waxing poetic about how good “Trey Co” looks or how cute he is or -- on one inspired occasion that continues to drive Michael up a wall every time he remembers it -- the fact that Trevor would never be a main-team Achievement Hunter because he’s _too good looking to fit in with the rest of the team._

So yeah. Michael’s jealous. _So what._

If anything, Trevor is the one who should be jealous, Michael thinks. 

In the end, Michael is the one who gets to go home with Geoff, if he wants. Michael is the one who should’ve been getting marked up this morning -- and if Geoff weren’t such a moron before he has coffee, Michael would’ve been the one on the receiving end of whatever romp in the car Geoff had planned for them. It’s Michael who would’ve come back in with curls plastered to his forehead and the taste of his boss on his mouth -- not Trevor. 

Michael _likes_ Trevor. This whole thing is stupid. He needs to get over himself.

As Trevor finishes up the segment, he looks over directly at Michael -- and Michael realizes only then that he’s been staring openly at his coworker for the past four or five minutes as he worked through his own inner turmoil. 

As he talks through the last few lines, Trevor winks at Michael -- and it’s such a _Geoff_ mannerism that there’s a moment where Michael feels half unhinged. Trevor passes the mic back to Jack and makes a beeline to where Michael is sitting. 

_ That _ has Geoff’s attention. 

“See something you like?” Trevor says, dropping his voice to a lower register and raising an eyebrow in an obvious joke. Another peace offering. Christ, Michael really had everyone walking on eggshells after this morning, he realizes. 

Trevor props up against the lip of Michael’s desk, back to Geoff. Michael resists the urge to look at Geoff to gauge a reaction. He’ll take the bait. Maybe they can defuse some of this tension and move on. 

“Maybe I do,” Michael says, mirroring the joking tone. “Maybe I’m thinking about giving Geoff a run for his money.” 

“Hey -- I’m a cheap date,” Trevor says, shrugging. “Just puttin’ it out there.” 

“Trevor,” Michael says in a fake scold, “don’t sell yourself short. Good looking man like you oughta be wined and dined.”

Trevor laughs, and movement from the other side of the desk catches Michael’s eyes. Geoff is frowning at him over the line of computers. 

“I mean, it’d take more than _a cup of coffee_ , y’know?” Michael says, making eye contact with Geoff, curling his mouth around the words. 

“Listen, I wouldn’t say no to a good cup of coffee,” Trevor cautions, unaware of the death glare Geoff is currently shooting them both. 

“But you wouldn’t exactly be doling out blow jobs for it, either,” Michael says, leaning back in his chair. Trevor strokes his chin as if thinking it over. 

“Maybe, maybe not... how good of coffee are we talking, here?” Trevor asks. Michael watches the blood drain out of Geoff’s face from the other side of the computer.

“You’re both fired,” Geoff grumbles, looking back to his work.

“Aw, c’mon boss,” Trevor says, swiveling to look at Geoff over his shoulder.

“Geoff no!” Michael says. 

“Nope, pack your shit,” Geoff says, not smiling. “I’m bringin’ in new talent.” 

“If you change your mind, I’m sure we could make it worth your while,” Michael says. Geoff frowns and squirms. Trevor shoots Michael a glance as if asking for permission to joke and Michael shrugs. 

“There’s a rumor -- just hearsay, mind you -- that you can get promoted with a combination of coffee and oral,” Trevor says. 

“Strictly hearsay!” Michael chimes in. 

“Jack? I’m going to need you to call security to escort my ex-employees off the property,” Geoff says, looking past them.

“I mean, Michael and I don’t wanna lose our jobs, boss,” Trevor says. 

“I think we could come to an understanding, right Geoff?” Michael says, raising his eyebrows. 

“I’m not kidding -- get back to work,” Geoff says, clipped -- and his tone really does go sour. 

Trevor turns back to Michael with his eyebrows knit and a look on his face as if to say “oh shit” and Michael just rolls his eyes. 

So much for defusing the tension.

 


	6. Chapter 6

On Monday nights, Geoff and Michael go to Homeslice.

It's what they do.

Unless one of them is out of town (which happens more and more lately), it's a standing date and it's simply assumed that Monday night's dinner plan will involve Geoff, Michael, and a big fucking pizza.

"Homeslice?" Geoff asks at the end of the day – throwing the question at Michael as he gets halfway out the office door.

"Ah, shit," Michael says, spinning on his heel. "Y'know, I've actually got a thing tonight."

"A thing," Geoff repeats back to him, deadpan.

"Why don't you take Trevor?" Michael says, shrugging.

_ So,  _ Geoff thinks. _It's still the Trevor thing._

It feels like a punch to the gut, and Geoff tries not to grimace.

It’s been a goddamned day and apparently just because the work day is over, the struggle isn’t over yet.

\---

Michael and Trevor have been a fucking mess all that day.

It's Michael who instigates it, of course, and no one else seems to notice anything out of the ordinary. (Then again, no one else knows that Geoff started the day out by squeezing Trevor's ass and propositioning him.)

But since the AHWU filming, Michael has used any excuse he can to talk to Trevor, joke with him, flirt with him in front of Geoff. Michael’s hand lingering too long on Trevor’s hip. A glance that lingers and roves until it’s lascivious.

The attention Michael usually channeled into talking to Geoff -- on and off camera -- had been diverted all day towards Trevor.

The last straw had come in the late afternoon when Geoff had walked in on them on the tail end of roughhousing -- the two of them red-faced and out of breath, Trevor rubbing his shoulder like it had been wrenched out of place and Michael’s curls plastered to his forehead.  Jeremy had been on the floor laughing hard when Geoff walked in -- Gavin with a camera in his hand, and the piece de resistance: Trevor _sitting in Michael's lap_ on the couch.

"I don't even want to know what the fuck's going on here," Geoff had lied, stopping in his tracks to survey the scene.

"It's not what it looks like," Jeremy had said between laughs.

"It's exactly what it looks like," Gavin had said, swiveling in his chair.

"Trevor," Geoff had said, trying to strike a tone that didn't betray how many goddamned mixed reactions were flowing through him at the sight of him breathing hard and resting in Michael’s lap. "Don't you have – I don't know, shot in the dark here, buddy – some _editing_ to do? A _job_ maybe?"

Gavin and Michael hadn't reacted to the reprimand, but Trevor and Jeremy had both gone stone-faced at Geoff's seriousness.

"I thought we were fired," Michael shot back through a smile, squeezing Trevor around the waist for emphasis.

"Yeah, sorry Geoff," Trevor said, moving to stand up.

"Come on now," Michael said, holding Trevor by the waist. The roughhousing picked back up right where it left off, then, with Trevor squirming and trying to break out of Michael's grip while Michael held on tight. 

"This is good content!" Michael insisted, gesturing to Gavin’s filming.

"You'd better let him go – unless you're planning on staying late to get Trevor's editing done for him," Geoff snapped.

"I'm trying boss," Trevor said, laughing and struggling.

"I'm sure he'll get it done," Michael said, maintaining a ferocious grin at Geoff as he pinned Trevor's arms to his sides. "TreyCo's a talented kid – you've said it yourself."

Geoff had turned away from them then.

"Boss – where you going?" Jeremy had wanted to know.

"Gus' office. I need whiskey."

The commotion of struggling bodies and laughter followed him out the door.

\---

"I'm sure Trevor would love some time alone over a pizza," Michael says, shaking Geoff back to reality.

Geoff frowns.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" he asks, standing up from his desk. Michael shrugs.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Follow me."

There are a few stragglers in the AH office, and public relationship or not, this _isn't_ a conversation Geoff is going to have in front of someone else. He pushes out of the office, through the studio, and through the exit. It's breezy outside, and he steps a few paces away from the door before turning to Michael.

"What the fuck is going on with you today?" Geoff asks, trying not to sound mad. Michael pushes down in the pockets of his hoodie and shrugs.

"Whaddya mean?"

"You know what I goddamn mean," Geoff snaps. " _Trevor_."

"I was just playing around," Michael says in a tone that Geoff knows means he's lying.

Geoff cuts his eyes at Michael.

"What?!" Michael asks defensively. "You don't get mad when I do it with Gavin."

"I'm not _mad_ now. I just don't get it."

"You're the one always talking about how cute he is and making weird jokes about his cum all day," Michael says. "I mean, I like Trevor. He's funny."

"But you especially like him today," Geoff says, dubious.

"I felt like he needed some extra attention after this morning, Geoff," Michael says.

Geoff can feel his face drop.

“I’m perfectly capable of conducting my own fucking damage control,” Geoff snaps.

"Hey, ouch," Michael says. "No need to be jealous."

"I'm not _jealous_ , I just think it's over the top, the way you –"

“Hey -- if you want me to back off of Trevor, just say the word,” Michael interrupts. “I’m not trying to encroach on your _territory._ "

Michael is already retreating – Geoff can tell by his posture, by the look on his face. Geoff won't be making any more progress in this conversation – and he still has no fucking clue what Michael is trying to accomplish with all this.

“Territory,” Geoff repeats back, flat. “Michael you’re -- “

"Anyway, I gotta run," Michael says, producing his phone and checking the time.

"Right. To your _thing._ "

"Yep, that'd be the one," Michael says, smiling. He closes the distance between them, presses a kiss high on Geoff's cheek, and then he's gone.

\---

And so here Geoff is.

Alone on a Monday night.

Getting predictably drunk.

If Monday had gone better or if Michael had given him a legitimate excuse, Geoff might've actually enjoyed the time alone. Maybe he would've stopped by HEB on the way home – picked up a nice steak to sear and enjoy by himself, taken the opportunity to blast the too-loud crustpunk that Michael always complains about when Geoff sings along badly in the kitchen as he cooks. He could’ve actually read for a while without being nagged for attention, or given Fallout 4 the undivided attention it deserved.

A night alone could've been great.

Under other circumstances.

As quickly as Geoff has walked through the door at home, he's chasing a shot of high-proof bourbon with a cold can of beer.

OK. _More_ than a shot, if he's being honest. He'd sloshed the liquor into a mug without keeping strict track of it. What did it matter? As long as he keeps his hands off his cell phone and resists the inevitable urge to drunk-dial Michael (or anyone who will listen), getting drunk will have zero repercussions outside of the possibility of a hangover in the morning.

The beer cuts the burn of the whiskey and he stands in the kitchen, sorting through junk mail while he waits for the liquor to kick in and soothe whatever feeling he's far too sober to face right now.

Bill. Bill. Bill for the previous owner of the house. Junk mail. Bill.

The buzz starts like warm water – feels like easing into a nice bath – the heat starting at the place where his skull meets his neck and seeping slowly outwards until he feels it in his fingertips. When his whole body is warm with it and the synapses in his brain are sufficiently blunted, Geoff paces to the living room and lets his body fall across the couch.

_ Trevor. Michael. What the hell is going on? _

Michael is a jealous man and it's part of what Geoff had found attractive in the first place. But he can't make sense of what has happened today. Michael flirting all day, enlisting Trevor to gang up on Geoff.

And Trevor in Michael's lap. What was that?

There was no guarantee that Geoff was going to walk in on that scene – so had it truly been roughhousing and nothing else? Had it been for _Michael's_ benefit instead of Geoff's?

Geoff sighs.

Michael is normally so straightforward. He wants attention and sex and validation and care – and Geoff is happy to give him all of those things until they're both exhausted.

But this.

Whatever _this_ is.

He can't wrap his mind around it. And when Geoff looks straight at the conflict – even while drunk – it makes his lungs feel like they're collapsing. It makes his head feel like it's caving in.

Trevor and Michael. Trevor on _top_ ofMichael.

Michael's hands on the younger man's waist.

Michael so easily handling him.

What would the day have been like if the roles had been reversed -- if Trevor had walked in with a mark on his neck from Michael instead of Geoff? Would Geoff had been angry or jealous, or would he have warred with himself all day.

Would he have kept stealing glances at the mark on Trevor’s neck the same way he found himself doing all day today? Would it have been better or worse knowing that Michael left the mark?

Only now does Geoff realize the buzz is still spreading.

Only now does Geoff realize his hands are in his goddamned pants, playing idly with the long-healed piercing he'd changed out that weekend, rolling the warm u-shaped metal as his cock responded to the touch.

Christ. How much liquor had he poured?

How much did it take for his hand to just _find its way to his cock?_

It doesn't matter. It's _far_ too early in the night to sober up.

Maybe he'll finish the beer, grab a second shot – more reasonable this time, not over-poured – and retire to bed.

But goddamn it: he’s started the business on the couch and he’s too thick with alcohol to stop now.

He's been holding that back all day – you don't make it to your 40 th birthday without learning a few mental tricks to keep yourself away from weird office boners – but the minute the booze had hit his system, it felt like the majority of his blood had been diverted to his cock.

And so maybe it's not such a bad thing that Michael has ditched him.

Because what's worse? Fucking Michael while thinking about Trevor, or jerking off with both of them in his mind?

And they're both most definitely in the forefront of his mind.

Michael had seen to that.

Whatever Michael's plan had been – inspiring jealousy or enacting punishment – it had resulted in Geoff holding back a massive hard-on for the two of them.

_ Trevor in Michael's lap. _

He can't get the image out of his head.

Geoff hips up on the couch and the movement feels like admitting defeat: dragging unzipped jeans and boxers until they're almost at his knees, freeing his cock and sighing hard. Everything feels like it's in slow motion because of the bourbon: slow and safe and totally reasonable. Geoff spits into his hand and coats his erection.

It's like an algebra equation in the end, and Trevor is the unknown variable.

Geoff knows the ins and outs of fucking and being fucked by Michael. He knows how the kid breathes, how he likes to be sucked off, how he cums. He could make an academic outline of the details just as easily as he could compose a sonnet to the beauty of the whole thing.

But Trevor.

Hmm.

Well, Trevor is the variable, after all. The thing that makes the equation worth thinking about in depth.

Would his pupils be blown wide like Michael's?

Would his hard cock be the same bruised color as his lips?

What kind of sounds would Trevor make with Michael kneeling behind him, spreading him open with his fingers, with his mouth? What kind of things would Michael’s velvet, talented tongue make Trevor babble out?

They should be rhetorical questions, but Geoff finds his imagination quickly filling in the details with explicit sensory fantasies: Trevor's eyes falling shut as a breathy moan escapes his lips. Michael's fingers digging into Trevor's hips to keep the younger man steady as Michael fucks him with his tongue, Trevor’s pale skin moving over sharp collarbones as he strains back against Michael’s face, begging for more.

Geoff builds a rhythm on his cock without thinking about it, arching off the couch , eyes squeezed shut.

Would Michael fuck Trevor face to face, or would he press a wide palm down on the back of the kid's neck as he sank into Trevor's ass for the first time, crushing his face against the bed and handling him easily? Would Trevor whimper sweetly or just moan out Michael's name into the bedspread?

Would he make Michael fight him -- squirming and jostling the way they had on the couch, or would he be all slender and pliant and sweet sighs, going soft and easy under Michael’s hands? 

They're equally pretty pictures in the end – Michael holding Trevor down by the neck and hip as Trevor struggles and whines, or Michael hitching his muscle-roped arms under Trevor's pale knees, lifting him easily off the bed and pumping into him with Trevor's untouched erection bobbing between them, Trevor babbling and praising him.

There's no wind-up, no easing into the filthy things Geoff can conjure up when he's drunk. No sweet little scenario, no thoughts about hands running through hair or gentle kissing. He pumps his own cock hard, fucks up into his hand as he hears the wet, obscene sounds of their coupling in his imagination.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he says into the empty house as his orgasm builds, as Geoff feels his own body contracting hard, his cock throbbing in his hand.

And then, as he begins to feel the release, Geoff feels a wet heat on his face.

He's cum so hard that some has hit his own chin – he hasn’t cum in his own goddamned face since he'd gotten the first minute of privacy after fucking boot camp 20 plus years ago -- and the realization has Geoff scrambling and suddenly sober.

He doesn't even stroke himself through the full orgasm, doesn't enjoy the last ripples of pleasure, too busy with dropping his dick and swabbing off his face.

Geoff remembers where he is, realizes what he'd been thinking about. 

He's disgusted with himself.

He's still got his Vans on. His shirt's still half-on on for Christ's sake.

"I'm too fucking sober for this," he says to no one before letting loose a shuddering sigh and wondering what sort of leftovers might await him in the fridge.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

By all accounts, Monday night should be uneventful for Trevor.

And for every piece of it that he consciously controls, it _is._

He heads home. He pours himself a gigantic glass of water. He feeds his cat. He checks YouTube to see if anything outstanding has happened on his personal channel while he was at work (it hasn't). He browses through reviews of a few horror games that keep getting recced in the comments of his Soma videos.

By the time he's ready to go for a run, it's already dark out.

He laces up his shoes and paws around in his dresser to find a reflective armband and the little blinking LED that clips to his shorts. He decides to forego music tonight – to just listen to his heartbeat and his breathing and give himself some mental space.

Austin had been hot during the day, even in December, but as soon as the sun dips behind the horizon, a breeze picks up and turns the early evening chilly. It's a little to cool at first – but he knows that it will only take a moment before his blood is pounding and hot and the air will feel good.

Trevor doesn't push the pace tonight as he begins to jog down the road. He lets the muscles in his hips, his legs warm up and appreciates the way the rhythmic pounding seems to knead the tension out of his body, starting at his feet and extending upwards until his shoulders are loose and his spine is unwinding. His breathing falls into a steady and familiar pattern and the run becomes effortless and meditative.

At last he allows himself to mentally review the day.

\---

Michael had been in a better mood by the time he returned to the office after going to find Geoff.

Even now, Trevor isn't sure what to chalk that up to.

Originally he'd assumed that Geoff had apologized and the misunderstanding had been cleared up – but by the way Geoff's spine stayed stiff and Michael had begun to tease the man, Trevor had quickly abandoned that assumption.

_"Maybe I’m thinking about giving Geoff a run for his money.”_

Michael's words from the morning march around Trevor's brain as he closes in on the end of his first mile.

If Michael were serious, he certainly had given it his best shot throughout the work hours. He'd found every excuse to talk to Trevor, to pull Trevor away from his desk, to pull Trevor _into his lap_. And it was making Geoff visibly jealous.

_But the question,_ Trevor thinks, _is this: jealous of which one of them?_

The obvious answer would be that Geoff had been jealous of Trevor – because the attention and manic energy Michael had shifted over to Trevor normally belonged to Geoff. It was impossible to miss the way that Michael took every opportunity to bug Geoff, talk to Geoff, ask Geoff questions, text Geoff when he isn’t in the room, talk about Geoff to anyone who will listen. It's equal parts adorable and frustrating – at least when there's a task at hand – and Geoff doesn't even pretend to be annoyed by it. The guy beams under the attention. Trevor likes that – likes their dynamic. There's something great about seeing two people you like interact with each other, be so pleased by each other.

So the obvious answer is that Geoff had been upset that the attention normally reserved for him was suddenly being showered on Trevor.

Which essentially makes Trevor a plaything between the two of them. Not necessarily the most dignified position – even if he had enjoyed the attention from Michael.

The other option, Trevor thinks, is that Geoff had been jealous of Michael.

And that's where things get complicated.

What if their out-of-office discussion – the one that Michael came back into the office from in a better mood – had been about Trevor? What if instead of apologizing and moving on, Michael had been establishing the fact that in whatever sort of open relationship they have, Trevor isn't off limits?

He certainly hadn't felt off limits for the remainder of the day, and for the second mile of his run, Trevor tries to imagine what had been going through Geoff's head that day.

Michael pulling Trevor down into his lap – Geoff had seen them at it on the couch, and it had escalated the minute he was in the room. Had Geoff gritted his teeth and locked his jaw because he was jealous of Trevor or of Michael? Had Geoff imagined himself in Michael's place – Michael's big hands replaced with Geoff's slender, tattooed fingers on Trevor's hips, pulling him backwards, squeezing Trevor down onto his lap as Trevor squirmed and tried to break free.

The attention from Michael was good – was welcomed.

But Trevor can't help but let his thoughts drift to what it would be like to get the same treatment from Geoff. He finds himself thinking of how different Geoff's broad lap would've been under his ass, what man's wider chest would've felt against Trevor's back.  Whether Geoff would've laughed that high, unhinged laugh as Trevor struggled against him, or if he would've instead let loose a low, closed-mouth chuckle that reverberated in his chest.

Trevor catches a rock with his foot funny and wobbles – and in the same instant, a cyclist zooms by his left side with just inches to spare. His mind had wandered so hard he'd almost forgotten where he is, what he's doing – and he's slammed back into his body with a jolt.

"Heads up!" the cyclist barks, way too late. Trevor stops in his tracks and moves to the grass, adrenaline dumping into his system at the shock. He breathes hard, hands on his knees.

_Christ,_ he thinks. _A wandering mind is a dangerous thing in more ways than one._

The wind picks up and chills his sweat-damp skin.

He resolves not to think about Michael or Geoff or the office at all for the rest of his run.

It only barely works.

\---

Things don't get dicey until Trevor's head hits the pillow that night.

He'd showered after the run, grabbed cheap dinner with a friend from UT, and gotten some raw footage for the next video for his channel.

He'd safely tucked Michael and Geoff away into a corner of his brain that doesn't need to be revisited until he sees them in the morning. Maybe everything will have blown over by then, anyway, and the day will be completely normal. No more or less attention than he’s used to.

He'll wake up and feel dumb to have wasted any time overthinking things.

He falls asleep with headphones on, ambient music lulling his mind.

\---

The dream starts in the kitchenette – and in that way that dreams sometimes supply you with information that you could never really know, dream-Trevor knows that there is only one other person in the entire building with him here.

Geoff.

Naturally.

The dream replays the real events of the morning for Trevor, shifting his point of view magically so that he watches himself, watches Geoff sneak behind him, watches the man put his hands on Trevor and grind him into the counter.

A piece of his consciousness acknowledges that this is a memory and not an imagined event, and so within the dream, Trevor smiles at the touch, presses back a little against Geoff and says, "I'm not Michael, boss."

"I know," Geoff growls into his ear – and the words make Trevor shudder as Geoff stoops to snake one arm around his hips, the other hand roaming under his hoodie and shirt, lifting the hem until Trevor feels chilled air wash across his stomach. Geoff's fingers find his nipple and twist lightly and Trevor leans back – almost falls back – with a quiet "fuck" as Geoff begins to mark up his neck.

There's no talk – no explanation – and Trevor doesn't look for justification in the dream. Geoff keeps going and Trevor lets it happen.

All of the frustration and the confusion and the pleasure of the day is channeled into the dream, then, Geoff going rougher and Trevor going more pliant under his touch. He’s half-aware in the dream and Trevor gives in fully to it, caught up in the absurd continuation of the morning’s events that seem so long ago now.

It’s a mess of sensations, his hips pinned easily between a heavy, warm body and an inert counter, clothes shifting over his skin, one hand steadying his own weight while the other reaches behind him, wanting to touch Geoff -- to do _something_ \-- but not getting purchase on anything. Geoff just hums, all lips and tongue and teeth against the sensitive skin at Trevor’s collarbone, his throat, just below his ear -- and the man is hell-bent on marking him up, worrying and sucking the skin here and there until Trevor groans and Geoff pulls away to move an inch or so and start the whole process again.

Geoff is unstoppable in his dream -- a warm almost animal energy behind him, and the trajectory changes as Geoff handles him, both of them moaning and needy now, Geoff pulling him off the counter and back onto Geoff’s groin as he undoes Trevor’s jeans. He looks down just in time to see tattooed hands disappear into his boxers. Geoff squeezes Trevor’s hard-on by the base -- and they’re both improbably hard already -- Geoff grinding into him, mouth still at work on Trevor’s neck.

_We’re gonna look like a wreck when we walk in the office, _ Trevor thinks in the dream -- and for some reason this thought makes him throb against Geoff’s palm.

Geoff slides his hand out of the garment then, pushing Trevor’s clothes down, pushing Trevor down by the back of the neck until he’s stooped over the kitchen counter. And then Geoff is tracing his spine with ragged, open-mouthed kisses as he presses a magically-slicked fingertip at the cleft of Trevor’s ass before sliding down, pressing into Trevor even as he holds him by the neck. Trevor wants more instantly -- wants to be filled completely, wants Geoff to wreck his skin with marks and --

There’s an awful crash -- abrupt both in its volume and in the fact that it yanks Trevor from the dream and back into consciousness like a sharp tripwire -- and he jolts awake, spine straight and skin chilled with sweat, his mind struggling to catch up with reality, struggling to sort out real details and imagined ones.

His cat.

His fat fucking cat has knocked the clock radio off of his nightstand.

His heart continues at double time as he processes it.

Trevor is hard -- he realizes it now as he shifts, as he remembers the dream he’d been so rudely wrenched out of. Painfully goddamned hard -- and his nerves feel like they’re on fire. He’d gotten so close to the main event and he can’t help but feel a little offended at the timing.

_What’s worse,_ he wonders. _A wet dream about your boss or straight-up getting off to him?_

Trevor sighs hard. He already knows the answer to that.

It wouldn’t be the first time for either -- so what does it matter?

He slumps back and shimmies out from under the blanket. He can sort out whether or not he’ll feel guilty about this later. Right now there’s no ignoring this reality, and he’s not just going to wish away the hard-on and drift back to a peaceful sleep. Maybe if he takes care of himself, he can have a normal, dreamless sleep and salvage this stupid night.

Trevor palms himself through his boxers with one hand as the other fumbles for the lube in his bedside drawer. He finds it and undresses himself unceremoniously, keeping his clothes close at hand, coating his cock next and letting himself hiss a little at the sensation.

Dream foreplay had been nice -- but the reality of a hand on his skin is better.

He begins to pump himself, twisting and imagining it’s Geoff’s hand against him, then Michael’s. He’d be happy to have company from either of them in his bed. Both of them. He imagines sitting in Geoff’s lap, facing him, rutting against his boss as Michael strokes his back, fucks Trevor open with his fingers. Trevor shudders at the thought of both of them and his cock bounces a little between strokes as he throbs here in real life.

Trevor’s mind flits through fantasies like fingers running through a rolodex \-- trying to find the right fit for the moment, the thing he can focus on. It runs like a series of flashes as Trevor tries different things out before moving on to the next idea: the sensation of Michael’s fingers curling in his hair, the warmth of Geoff’s chest against his bare back, Michael’s ragged breath on Trevor’s neck, Geoff’s eyes half-hooded as he gives into pleasure.

That’s it, he realizes.

That’s what he needs.

It would be awfully nice to watch the expression on Geoff’s face as Trevor slides his mouth down the length of his cock for the first time. To watch him lose it, maybe, as Trevor swallows against his whole thick length. Had Geoff ever imagined it from the other point of view, Trevor wonders? Would it make him hard to know that his employee is a gifted and enthusiastic giver of oral?

He would love to drag sounds out of his boss with his mouth and his hands almost as much as he’d like to be on the receiving end. Trevor would tease him until he was begging, maybe, hipping up -- maybe Trevor would let Geoff fuck his throat until his boss was on the edge, peering up at the expression on the older man’s face as Trevor gave over complete trust and control, relaxing his throat around Geoff.

Whatever they did, he wants to see Geoff’s reactions -- hear his breaths.

Trevor zeroes in on the thought of Geoff fucking him face-to-face -- picks back up at the kitchen dream. Geoff would still be clothed, his pants hastily undone and falling just below his hips. Once he was satisfied that Trevor was ready, he’d hoist Trevor up on the counter like he weighed nothing, hold Trevor’s knees up and then guide himself in for the first long, sighing stroke.

It would take time to adjust to Geoff’s size, and Trevor would watch his face the whole time with fascination: the way his eyebrows would hitch and knit at the first feeling of pleasure, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he sighs and moans, how his mouth would fall open when they finally reached a rhythm together, a half-smile over slightly crooked white teeth, breath hitching.

The sex in his fantasy is rough and desperate, Geoff holding him as the cold counter digs into Trevor’s skin, Geoff’s hips working and snapping like he doesn’t fully control them -- like he wants Trevor too badly to be in control anymore -- and he stutters out his name against the skin of Trevor’s neck as he buries his cock and cums hard in the fantasy, squeezing Trevor by the waist as he lays a few last strokes with abandon into Trevor, filling him --

“Fuck, Geoff -- ” and Trevor almost shocks himself when his own voice breaks the relative silence of the room where he’s quietly pumping his cock -- but the words make it more real and he’s throbbing hard, so close, and so he says it again with more feeling, “Geoff!” -- and he fucks up into his hand, hipping off the bed. Trevor babbles his boss’ name as he cums \-- too tired, too relieved to feel ashamed of the noise he’s making, of who and what he’s imagining as warmth and bliss and exhaustion unfurl from his cock outwards, his release landing hot and wet on his stomach. He eases himself through orgasm, slowing finally to languid strokes from base to tip that have the muscles in his thighs trembling.

Trevor is already half asleep as his hands find the shirt he’d been wearing. He swabs himself off, tossing the shirt to the floor, not bothering with his boxers.

Trevor slips under the blanket again, speeding towards sleep, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he ought to be ashamed -- but realizing that he’s not.

 

 

 


End file.
